How mighty has fallen
by Airgid-chead
Summary: In a desperate attempt to keep John on his side, Sherlock manages to drive him away. Alone, he chooses to walk down a path he left behind him years ago. It will lead to his end, unless someone steps in.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

A/N: "The Great Game" and season 2 have never happened. Also for this fic, I needed Sherlock younger than in the actual series, so he's twenty-six.

Warnings: drugs use, some minor swearing, slash in the next chapters.

...

**Downfall**

...

It is not as if he had not noticed at first. He always noticed everything, it was just that he had not paid it much thought. Honestly, he had been rather pleased with how the things had been progressing.

John dating Sarah had meant John going out in the evenings, leaving Sherlock to his own devices, that is: his experiments or his violin or his sulking. John and the experiments had never got along well, for reasons obscure even to his flatmate. Maybe he really did not appreciate human parts in the fridge but it had been a little exaggeration on his part, too. Sherlock would bring something from the morgue from time to time but he had not been insensible enough to do it more often than twice a month. Molly might be head over heels for him, but she was not a magician to hide the lack of some poor deceased man's head or heels from her colleagues or superiors. So he had to stick to more innocent experiments. 'Innocent' according to John, at least until one of them exploded all over him when he had gone to the kitchen to prepare tea.

The violin was a different matter. Sherlock disliked playing it when anyone was in the flat and despite his earnest intentions he could not bring himself to break that habit on John's behalf.

He actually suspected that John was glad that he had a chance to go out when the 'sulking mood' hit Sherlock. And at least, without John, he could succumb to the black pits of boredom without anyone whining about his theatrical gestures. They were not theatrical. They were something that would take his mind away from nothingness at least for a second. Also, without John, he could try (sometimes) to fight it off by going through his emails or listing all the mistakes he could find on his blog. Those were exactly as exciting as feeding snails, but they would work once in a while. Especially when John's email was full of ads from one particular bank.

So it had been all for the best at first. John had been thoughtful enough not to bring his date to their flat, not that Sherlock would have overly minded. Whenever the two of them would meet, he would forget about her presence as soon as the greetings were over. Besides, John had been always there when he had been needed. The man had the sixth sense when it came to Sherlock's erratic actions and had always come back in time to help to test a new theory or stalk another criminal. That had been a perfect deal in the consulting detective's opinion.

...

Then, one day, something was off. Definitely off. He was in the middle of an experiment when he called for John's assistance and silence answered him. He did not hear the shower running, neither was the telly on. John was out. Again. Work? No, he had managed to memorise his flatmate's working hours and it was already well past his shift's end.

"Sarah", he grunted the moment when the concoction he had been working at began to smell unpleasantly.

He turned on his heels, frustrated as it was ruined for further use and threw himself on the couch. He entertained the thought of texting John, only it would be for nothing given the failure of the experiment.

To think that John was with Sarah when he needed him. It was alright for him to have a girlfriend, but hadn't he met Sherlock first? Shouldn't it mean he and his needs were first too? It was inconvenient to be left alone when he had grown used to having someone in his flat. He had taught himself to plan everything for two people, unconsciously preparing himself for requesting John's presence at one stage of his activities. He was not necessary per se, but Sherlock knew it was hard to convince his sub consciousness of that. Besides, as John frequently told him, he should not draw conclusions from individual events. So he wouldn't, despite himself.

...

But when he called John to come to a stakeout with him and the man did not even answer the individual event turned into a series of events.

John's gun would have been more than useful and the doctor always took it with him whenever he was going out, not as much for self-defence as because of reluctance to leave it anywhere near Sherlock.

When John finally graciously turned up in their flat, Sherlock had already taken care of a stab wound he had on his arm. Nothing serious, John would not even notice the bandages underneath his shirt.

"I called you", he said matter-of-factly, typing a text to Lestrade.

"I know, I'm sorry I didn't answer. We were in the cinema", John explained softly taking off his jacket, "Anything important?"

Since when did he call in unimportant matters?

"No", he tossed his mobile on a low coffee table, "I couldn't find tea".

John gave him a look full of suffering.

"It's always in the same cupboard. For heaven's sake, try to remember it."

Judging by John's irritated tone, the date must have gone worse than expected.

"Lestrade want us in Brixton in the morning. Maybe you should go to bed earlier."

"Have you just treated me like a child?"

"What?", Sherlock blinked.

"Never mind", John shook his head, "I can't go, I have a shift."

Sherlock shrugged, "Take a day-off."

"I can't."

"Why not?", Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, "You haven't taken one this year yet. You can take it tomorrow."

John folded his arms as if bracing himself for something.

"I've already informed them I'm taking a day-off on Friday. I can't suddenly take another one tomorrow."

"Why would you need a Friday off? Nothing interesting happens then, at least not till the evening.", Sherlock was puzzled. Most of Friday crimes happened around midnight, when the heat of the night hit its peak.

It was John's turn to sigh.

"Me and Sarah are visiting her sister", he announced, "She invited us for the weekend."

Oh. Sarah. Again.

"Cancel it", he tossed, "She's probably as dull as her sister. In Brixton, however…"

He wasn't able to finish as John cried out.

"Sherlock! She's my girlfriend and I'm sincerely hoping she'll become something more", he hastily provided, "She is not dull. She may not be as brilliant as you, but at least she's warm and intelligent and sympathetic when needed. Refrain from insulting her", he added sternly.

"I haven't insulted her yet", the younger man let his tone adapt the same cold tone, "I was stating the fact. She's not the most exciting person to be with, even you have to admit it."

John measured him from head to toe.

"At least she's not a lethal person to be with", he walked away to his bedroom.

Sentiments.

...

He went to Brixton alone. Not as if he had never done it before.

And he came back half an hour later. John's absence had been painfully clear to him: there had been no one to appreciate his skills, sure Lestrade had commented on the swiftness of his mind but then he had had to take care of a petrified witness and Sherlock had taken advantage of that and had tried to inspect other rooms in the building where the body had been found. Least to say, the officers there had not seen the point of his little escapade and before the D.I. had been back, Donovan had sent him on his way. He wouldn't have relented had it not been for her calling him 'freak' and listing out all the regulations he had broken in such a high voice that the whole street could hear her. Moreover, there had been people from another squad there and they had not seem to be ready to be lenient with him.

So he had to leave before someone had decided it could be handy to arrest him for explanation.

In the taxi on his way back home he could not help but wonder if things would have proceeded differently had John been with him. Probably yes. Before John half of the occasions when he had been called to a crime scene would end like that.

He spent the rest of the day ignoring Lestrade's calls and texts. If he wanted his help he could have told his team to be cooperative. In the end, his mobile beeped with the last message: _Don't expect any cases until you stop acting like a brat._

_... _

He knew something big was going to happen. John was restless and John was rarely restless unless his leg that had never been wounded was hurting him. It was Thursday and he had not met Sarah since Monday which was pretty unusual, yet they had been exchanging calls every few hours so Sherlock had to wave a goodbye to his hopes of them having split up. His flatmate had spent all those afternoons and evenings on his laptop and finally Sherlock had enough and checked his browser history when John went to the bathroom.

To his surprise, John had been viewing jewellery shop's collections.

Sherlock may have little respect towards the society rules but he understood that when a man was looking for a ring he was planning to propose. He felt his insides freezing. Funny. It's not as if he hadn't seen it coming. Or as if he'd been afraid to see it coming.

John was going to propose to Sarah and Sarah was going to say yes. Why wouldn't she? John was a great man: honest, caring, loyal, smart, handsome… It was clear he loved her. They would be perfect together.

Together. They would be together and Sherlock would be left alone. With a startling clarity he realised he didn't want to be alone again. He had spent the bigger part of his life alone and unnoticed by people around him and it wasn't something he desired to return to. Who would go on the cases with him? Who would guard his back? He would never admit it aloud but he desperately needed a backup. With his fame growing he was given more and more dangerous cases, trailing after more and more ruthless criminals. It was exhilarating, only the said criminals knew more and more about him. They expected him. They anticipated his involvement and they were taking bets on who was going to finally finish him off. Those eight years ago when he had cracked the first case for the police he was literally no one and his assistance had been a well-guarded secret. But who would ever want to remain in the shadows forever? Where was the fun in it? Every chase, every new game with a new criminal mastermind was thrilling, making his blood flow faster and he had long ago discarded the safety he had had as an anonymous consultant. He would often go after someone without the knowledge of the police, of the very same person who informed him about the crime. And before they caught up with him, he was alone with John. John who would stay just behind his back until he found all the evidence and proved his theory. Sometimes, after he was done he would turn back and find a corpse there.

He couldn't lose John.

He frantically searched for something that would make him stay. He could call Sarah and threaten her to reject John, but if John ever learnt of this he would scurry away quicker than a lightening. He needed a different solution. What usually made people stay? An illness maybe? No, he was being ridiculous, he was talking about a doctor here. Never in million years John would believe he had a nasty disease without checking it himself. He could offer to accept Sarah in the flat so they could live there all together, so that John would always be there when he would find his useful. Only the flat was small and as far as his knowledge went, newlywed detested the so-called third party.

He was desperate enough to think about making Mycroft pay John for staying. But John would refuse.

John valued Sarah too much, he claimed he loved her. Loved her. Love. Such a strange word. According to a dictionary, love was an emotion of strong affection and personal attachment, a virtue representing all of human kindness, compassion, and affection; and the unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another.

Personal attachment. When people grew attached, it was very painful for them to be abandoned, wasn't it? A true heartless bastard would throw away a person who loved him.

John wasn't heartless in a bit. Sherlock actually suspected he may be a little too affectionate. He would never leave the one who loved him to suffer alone.

He smirked. He knew what to do.

When John walked out the bathroom, he found his flatmate sitting on the couch, playing nervously with his fingers.

"Everything alright?", he asked taking in Sherlock's rather dishevelled appearance. He looked almost worried. Sherlock worried? It didn't bode well.

"Oh, yes", Sherlock sounded distracted. He didn't even glance at his flatmate.

"Are you sure? Nothing I should be aware of?", John tried to appear curious, even joking, but he was truly apprehensive of what he may hear. Sherlock rarely, if not never, looked so unsure of himself. It was making him imagine worst scenarios.

But Sherlock only smiled a tight smile at him and resumed his play with his fingers.

Unable to shake off the discomfort and worry, John sat down in front of his laptop but couldn't focus on the site he was viewing. When he saw Sherlock straightening a little to look at him, he lowered his head, feigning interest in the Internet.

"John", came a tentative call.

"Yes?", he congratulated himself on keeping his nerves at bay.

"How long does it take to fall in love?"

John blinked. He certainly hadn't foreseen such query from the lips of his flatmate. Nevertheless, he decided to be truthful and as precise as possible. Just because Sherlock had dedicated himself to a silly problem didn't mean he was to be dismissive.

"It's impossible to tell", he started, "It depends, on what I know not. Some people need years to realise they love someone, others weeks, some fall in love at the first sight. And in all cases, the feeling as equally strong."

Sherlock nodded, as if it had confirmed his suspicions. He was almost funny with his awkwardness regarding emotions.

"And is it equally strong no matter the age or does it wither away with the passage of time?"

John hid a snicker at the unintentional attempt at poetry. Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"It should be. I mean, if you love someone truly you would not stop just because you've known each other for a long time. Love isn't about getting excited with each other, but growing comfortable with each other, as if making one being."

It was quite ludicrous to be having this conversation. John could swear that he was going to smack Sherlock should he make fun of his 'love philosophy'. Surprisingly, mocking never came.

The doctor inspected his flatmate from behind the laptop. Yes, he had been right. Sherlock looks highly uncomfortable, with a hint of despair. What had he done this time?

"Does a gender matter?", he all but whispered.

"Gender?", that threw John off track, "I believe not. Someone has once said that all love is beautiful. I guess it's true. Remember, my sister used to be married to a woman", he winked, "You do remember, don't you?"

"I do", Sherlock hastily assured, "What about two men?"

John gave him a look.

"It's all the same. All alright", he said, but didn't elaborate.

Sherlock fell silent, fidgeting slightly.

"Look", John began, a chilly suspicion forming in his head, "Do you want to tell me something?"

If he was wrong, nothing would happen. Sherlock would not even realise what he was implying.

Sherlock fidgeted some more, then forced himself to look at John's face. His eyes had something heart-breaking in them.

John's own heart stilled. Oh God, no.

"What would you do if a man fell in love with you?", Sherlock whispered, locking his eyes with John's.

Oh no.

"I'd feel honoured", John answered, carefully choosing the words, "And I'd gently explain that my heart already belongs to Sarah. I'm quite sure he would understand you can't make anyone return your love when they have already given it to another."

A pause. A very, very awkward pause full of uneasiness.

Then.

"I see", Sherlock stretched his fingers, quickly looking for a change of the subject, "I think he would", he felt like two idiots: first, because he had been rejected, second, because he had been rejected for his non-existent feelings.

When he saw John's face with pity written all over it his cheeks flamed pink. For a fraction of second he was set on turning it all into a joke, an experiment, a theoretical question. But he wouldn't be believed, because his role had been played perfectly and because it's probably the very same thing everyone would do after being turned down this fatly.

Fresh air. That was what would help him think.

Before John could say anything, and he looked ready to do that, Sherlock jumped up and practically ran to the door.

"I'll be back in a moment."

...

Confronted with the street traffic he was at loss what to do. He could just stroll for a bit and then return, only idle walking had never been high on his list of favourite activities. Normally, in a love story the rejected lover would crash at their friend's place. Great. Films once again awfully easy compared to the reality.

So he ended up in a shop two streets away, with a pack of cigarettes clutched in his hand. He paid for them before he could start questioning his decision about breaking a good habit of non-smoking. He inspected the pack closely and smirked involuntary. Going on autopilot, he chose the same brand he used to smoke. Maybe he really shouldn't start again. After all that time he had to admit he had been a heavy smoker, a little too heavy. It had taken him months to reduce the amount of cigarettes to two nicotine patches.

Didn't matter. Just one or two.

He leaned against a wall in a small alley and lost himself in observing patterns the cigarette smoke created. There was no wind between those buildings and the smoke, grey but elusive could form whatever shapes it wished.

He took a long deep drag. An exhale. Nice. Grey circles running after another.

He had just crushed the micro-chance he had had of John staying. How could he have ever come to a conclusion that professing his love would make him stay was beyond him. He twisted his lips bitterly. Even he was prone to panic attacks.

There wasn't much left now, other than going back and acting as if nothing had happened. Hopefully John would be doing the same. Wishful thinking. John never decided that something could be just erased.

Leaving the sanctuary on the alley he noted that half of the pack was gone.

...

Sherlock crept into their dark flat. John wasn't there.

He turned the lights on and scanned the room. Oh, there. A note.

_Sarah called. She's not feeling well and I'll be staying with her for a while. Call me if something happens._

_John_

Alright. John hadn't erased anything. He had simply run away from his gay flatmate who had a crush on him. Sherlock threw himself on the nearby armchair, laughing. That wasn't a reaction of a person who had said "it's all alright". It apparently wasn't alright. Even if Sherlock was indeed gay (which he was fairly sure he wasn't, just as he wasn't heterosexual. He just wasn't interested) he wouldn't exactly jump him the moment the door was closed. Running away was a little dramatic.

When the laughter subsided, he went to check John's bedroom. As suspected, most of his day-to-day things were gone. Clothes, a toothbrush. Underwear. Lots of underwear. So he was not planning on coming back soon, if at all.

Just bloody perfect.

Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him.

...

It was infuriating. Boredom. That black substance taking over his mind, gradually dulling the productive processes that were taking place there. Destroying them quietly. Eating away conclusions, mixing up facts. Merging observations together.

It was over a week since John had been gone. Sherlock had tried contacting him once, asking when he would be coming back. According to John, Sarah had been still unwell. Yeah, right. Two doctors hadn't been able to cure a cold in a week. So Sherlock had suggested they should discuss some things. There had been a pause then, with John being startled that Sherlock had even thought about discussing anything together. Anyway, he hadn't had time to come down to their (maybe only Sherlock's now) flat. He had implied there had been nothing to discuss.

"So why did you leave?", Sherlock had choked out. He hadn't liked the sound of it.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry", John's voice had been dripping with pity, "Only sometimes, to be with one person, you have to leave another."

Only why him? Sherlock had disconnected.

He didn't want pity. He wasn't someone to be pitied, the sole idea was absurd. He was a twenty-six-year-old man with a flat and a significant amount of money at his disposal. No one had a mind that could rival his own.

The only thing he wanted was John to engage him in one of those pointless talks or John to take with him to a crime scene. Not that the last was some pressing matter, Lestrade had not texted or called him since the case in Brixton.

Telling himself that he's brilliant and extraordinary didn't have the same effect those words had in John's mouth. Even worse, there was nothing to do to prove that he was all those things, because bloody Lestrade wasn't calling.

...

On the fifteenth day after John's sudden departure (speaking about that, the guy had the nerve to return when Sherlock had been out to collect the rest of his items), Sherlock stood face to face with a problem that couldn't be ignored any longer. The fridge was empty. He had eaten the last egg three days ago and it's only this long a human organism could go on without any form of nourishment. Cigarettes and coffee certainly weren't nourishment.

No point in deluding himself, he had to do the shopping, Mrs Hudson wasn't going to feed him forever, especially since he displayed no desire to leave his couch.

The shop was just at the end of the street. A short walk, even shorter since he chose to speed up because of his miserable looks. He hadn't taken a shower in few days and had forgotten to do it before going out. Oh well, at least he didn't have any dark circles under his eyes as he used to. He had done a lot of sleeping recently.

Why was he actually going to that shop? What would he do with the food he'd buy? He didn't feel like eating, despite feeling weak and his knees being dangerously shaky. He needed stimulation. Stimulation, not protein, not carbohydrates. Something to do and know he's doing something. John, maybe John. Or better, a case. But Lestrade had rejected his last call.

Suddenly, a familiar figure caught his eyes. Really, could that be… A pleasant surprise. A very pleasant, most-desired surprise.

Avoiding being spotted too soon, he followed the man down the street, then to the left and into an alley. He turned around a corner and almost bumped into him.

The man didn't recognise him at first, probably due to Sherlock's clothes and healthy looks (moderately, he had been worse) but after a short chat he finally made a connection.

"A pleasant surprise", he purred, now openly eyeing Sherlock.

Soon, the deal was made.

...

Sherlock barely remembered to buy a loaf of bread and two packets of crisps on his way back home. He was flying home, not going home, to be precise. It definitely felt like flying.

He ran upstairs and swiftly locked the door behind him. Wouldn't end well if Mrs Hudson saw anything. Throwing the bread and crisps on the table, he sat on the couch, his coat deposited in a heap next to him. It'd have wrinkles, but it wasn't important.

What was important, however, was the white powder in his left pocket.

He hadn't touched it in three years. Lestrade had been stupid to assume he had a stash in his flat. Mycroft had made sure there had been none. Until now.

He had syringes for his experiments, though, so this part was childishly easy. He pulled up his sleeve, uncovering the milky skin of his forearm. Milky at the first sight. After a closer inspection everyone would notice the faint marks of countless previous injections. Their number was what was making them invisible.

Most former users would have probably had a battle with themselves before shooting up a dosage of drug after a successful rehab. Sherlock had no such qualms. He was bored and the price his body would pay for the peace of his mind was irrelevant, a so-called calculated risk.

Besides, there was no one to stop him. Mycroft had never shown any interest in his addiction before (other than preventing him from shaming their surname), John was away (and John had only a vague idea that he may have used in the past) and Lestrade wasn't answering his calls (he used to always answer before, 'before', when he had been valiantly carrying out his project called 'let's save the bright junkie').

Without difficulties he found the vein and expertly injected the drug. Cocaine, as he used to prefer. Good that the dealer was still around. Good that he had refused to tell Lestrade his identity.

He sank into the couch with a sigh of relief. Soon everything was perfect. Bright, sharp, colourful. Not dull at all. Blissful.

Suddenly, the idea of harassing his tamed D.I. came to his mind. Had he not been under the influence of the drug, he may have had spared his actions a thought. Why would he attempt to draw the attention of the very same person who could arrest him for possession while he was still sitting with the cocaine in front of him seemed to be a consequential question.

_If you're interested in the name of the culprit in the Tower case, I can lend a hand. SH_

He could, because Anderson had come to consult Molly about the victim's injuries and it had been shamefully easy to coerce her into sharing the details.

_No need. It was the fiancée._

He stared at the screen. Lestrade had got the culprit so quickly? Interesting.

Just as interesting as the colour of the poster next to the fireplace. A really nice shade of yellow.

...

He might have been a tad too optimistic with the drug. He hadn't had the smallest dose in three years, so it was only expected that his body would rebel or rather give up sooner than he could remember. So he spent the next three days re-acquainting it with the syringe and the powder. There was little else he could do instead of lying on the couch or in the armchair and playing with the needle.

He was shaken out of his slumber by his mobile. He answered without checking the caller's ID because for some unfathomable reason he was sure it's John finally coming to his senses.

"Yes", he said in what he assumed was a clear voice.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade?

"Sherlock, you hear me?", the D.I. sounded impatient.

Good, he needed him. Sherlock stretched with barely contained pleasure.

"Loud and clear", he practically purred. Very clear and very loud, thanks to the substance flowing with his blood.

"We're in Notting Hill, next to the Garden. We may need your help", Lestrade was obviously reluctant to admit that after pretending to forget about Sherlock's existence.

"May need my help? I think it's as necessary as the air you breathe", he chuckled. He's going to be very preoccupied soon.

"Will you come?", Lestrade was preparing himself for a word fight.

"Sure. I'm leaving this moment", he was already putting on his coat (pretty creased).

Lestrade's surprised answer went unheard.

...

Sherlock ran out only to return a second later to rummage through John's wardrobe in a search of a hat. He had a woollen hat somewhere and Sherlock thought it may be wise to cover his messy hair. Appearances, appearances.

He was immeasurably glad that Mrs Hudson was out. He almost fell down the stairs. He completely forgot he hadn't eaten anything in two days. And now, in a standing position it was becoming more and more evident that his body wasn't coping with the cocaine the way he would like it to. Maybe he shouldn't have started with such big doses.

Fresh air seemed to help and before he found a cab he was already more or less functioning properly. Only the driver kept giving him weird glances, which were probably caused by the hat. Not many people chose to wear woollen hats in early September.

He noticed that his hand was slightly shaking when he was paying for the ride but dismissed it as the effect of poor feeding conditions. Soon he'd forget about hunger.

...

Lestrade's people were scattered around the corpses of two men separated from the world by a yellow tape. The D.I. was standing outside the crime scene and instantly spotted the consulting detective when he appeared on a park road.

"What have you got?", Sherlock asked in a way of greetings, eyes glued to the corpses.

"Two men, around thirty years old, no IDs on them, but both have wallets and one has a mobile", Lestrade provided, "One was strangled but there are no marks on the other body. Anderson will be checking him for poison later…"

Sherlock didn't realise he was an object of the D.I.'s scrutiny until the man grabbed his arm.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry?", the younger man had lost track of Lestrade's words soon after the age of the victims, "Anderson is doing something?", he really wished he could sound more intelligent.

Lestrade was blocking his view of the crime scene, so he tried to push past him but was only grabbed tighter.

"What's wrong with you?", the D.I. shook him, "Are you alright?"

Why did people insist on asking this question? Did he look not-alright?

"Good as new. Please, Lestrade, don't use me as a target of your unfulfilled paternal instinct", he spat, wrenching free from the man's hold.

He took two steps before he was grabbed again. This time, the D.I. whirled him furiously so they were facing each other.

"Leave my paternal instinct alone, brat", the man joked through gritted teeth but then, his eyes narrowed.

Ouch. He knew now.

He didn't try to oppose when Lestrade forced his face up and inspected his eyes. It didn't take a genius to notice the dilated pupils.

"Are you high?", no emotion coloured the man's voice.

"No, your face is lit up with a holy light that makes my pupils enlarge", Sherlock chuckled darkly.

Lestrade let him go, but not without a light push, as if to emphasise his… Disgust? Shock?

"You said you're clean."

A reproach?

"I was then", shrugged Sherlock, "Besides, I'm not too high."

"Not too high?", Lestrade advanced on him, making the young man back off a bit, "You dare to turn up here and tell me you're not too high? Look at yourself! You're shaking like a leaf, you can barely concentrate enough to hear me!"

"I'm here to help you and your useless team, not to be lectured by a man who takes out his personal incompetence on me", Sherlock snickered, turning to get under the yellow tape.

He was pulled back.

"Get out of here", Lestrade spat. He was pale, "We don't let bloody junkies on crime scenes."

The D.I. took a good hold on Sherlock's coat and steered him in the direction from which he had come.

"You need me", the young man protested.

"Not this much. Not at the price of my career or my team's success", Lestrade sighed, "Don't come back unless you're clean. And pray that we don't meet until then, because I guarantee I'll arrest you."

"Come on, Lestrade, quit the drama. You know I'm not some junkie forsaken by the world."

"Do I?", the man's eyes were sad, "I'm afraid I don't. In the last ten years of your life, you've managed to stay clean for approximately three years. You are a hopeless junkie."

It's like a slap. Really, was that all Lestrade saw him as? Sure he'd been there when Sherlock had been fighting the last withdrawal in his life (or rather what used to be his last withdrawal) but he had never addressed the problem except this one time he had arranged a fake drugs bust. Somehow he had thought that the D.I. was the only person other than John who appreciated his skills. Could it be that he'd been waiting for him to trip?

"Piss off, cop", Sherlock didn't even realise he was acting defensive. Calling Lestrade a cop just because he'd been called a junkie, "I'm going to wait until you show up on my doorstep, begging for help as your small brain is incapable of solving this new puzzle. I'm a patient man."

He strolled away, unaware of grief-stricken eyes following his every graceless move.

...

Lestrade didn't show up on his doorstep. In fact, he didn't even try to contact him.

...

Few days later, he got a message from John. He and Sarah were planning to visit Paris for a week. The doctor wished to know if Sherlock would like some souvenir. Sherlock would love to point it out to him that souvenirs and sentiments didn't exactly fit into his perception of himself and the world. Would have done it, had he not been too stoned to press the right buttons on his BlackBerry.

If he wanted to get self-pitying, he would say that everyone had decided to simultaneously leave him. First John fleeing to Sarah, then Lestrade driving him away like a stray dog, then Mrs Hudson going to pay a visit to her cousin in Sussex. He didn't do self-pity, so he's just glad that no one whines about his behaviour.

He's happy. As happy as one can be without his best (only) friend, his hobby and food. But he had cigarettes and his beautiful syringe. It'd been far too long.

He lit up a cigarette almost setting the couch on fire. Funny how his hands kept shaking even though he hadn't given any chance for a withdrawal to start. Reason told him it's malnourishment, but the cocaine prevented him from feeling hunger.

The cigarettes fell from his fingers, landing in the middle of the rug at his feet. Such a nice round circle it would burn out. Only it's his last cigarette, so it'd be a shame to waste it on the carpet. He bent down to pick it up and before his mind could register the change of the angle of sight, he's lying next to the cigarette.

He didn't see any valid reason to drag himself up, so he stayed where he was, drawing patterns on the rug with the cigarette. He wondered what Lestrade had found in the victim's mobile. And what had killed him in the first place. Pity he couldn't recall how the corpse had looked like. Maybe the men were an item? Oh yes, John would love that.

He's playing with different scenarios in his head when suddenly, he became aware of another presence in his room. Next to the fireplace, someone was standing. A man.

He smiled, insolently planting the cigarette between his pale lips.

"You've been running without supervision for far too long", the man's mouth curled in annoyance.

When Sherlock only tilted his head in acknowledgment, the man walked up to angrily and forced him up. Sherlock let himself be manhandled, not fighting even when the man pulled his sleeve up to examine the needle marks.

"High time to get you under control."

With that, he's being hauled towards the door.

...

A/N What do you think? It's my first Sherlock fic ever, so I'm more than a little nervous.


	2. Lost and Found ?

Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_. It belongs to BBC.

A/N Sherlock may appear a little OOC but well, that's the point ;)

Thanks for all the reviews and favs for the first chapter ^^

**Tara**: Thanks, I tried my best. I hope Lestrade won't disappoint you now. I'm not overly confident writing him, even though I adore him in the show XD

**NyteKit**: It wasn't Lestrade but I hope you like the progress of the plot anyway ;)

...

**Lost and Found (?) **

...

John didn't like shopping, he never had. Sure, he tolerated that but would rather do without it. Anyway, it was unimportant as John loved Sarah and therefore was more than willing to sacrifice a day of his life looking for a suitable present for her. Honestly, he was enthusiastic to do so. For about as long as it took to get to the shops. Then he recalled clearly what was so frustrating about shopping: making choices, especially choosing things not for himself, but for Sarah. What was a right gift for the first anniversary?

He was getting desperate, having already visited more than ten shops and still empty-handed, losing his carefully built confidence with every next talk with helpful shop assistants. Rationally thinking it was hardly their fault he found every item too tacky, too small, too big, too flashy, too old-fashioned for Sarah, but it wasn't exactly what he'd call a comforting knowledge.

Resigned after yet another shop, he decided to take a different approach. Rather than walking in every shop he passed, he would choose those that would catch his attention, either with their names or colourful windows. He was scanning the street ahead of him when a figure coming out from the shop on his left made him forget all about his newest tactic.

A young man with a mop of curly hair was wrestling with several shopping bags trying to type on his mobile. Finally, after three attempts at both strolling down the street and texting he had to lean against the nearest railing.

John took advantage of that forced delay and swiftly made his way towards his ex-flatmate. He had no idea what he would say, how he should greet Sherlock after all those months but his joy at seeing him again was too strong to leave any place for planning or worrying.

"Sherlock!", he called out when there were only few steps between them.

Sherlock's head jerked up and for a moment he looked absolutely clueless about who may be calling him but then his eyes focused on John and his lips slightly twitched upwards.

At least he wasn't walking away yet.

"John", he acknowledged the doctor with a short nod, pupils still boring into the smaller man, "Nice to see you."

John was officially too happy with that. Not only Sherlock was talking to him after the Disaster but he was also trying to be actually polite.

"It's not the usual place I'd imagine meeting you", John chuckled, pointedly looking at the shops surrounding them.

"I don't fancy walking around in rags", Sherlock applied the same light tone, "What do they say? Appearances, appearances."

That made John take a short peek at his ex-flatmate's looks. Definitely not rags. Tight jeans (since when did he wear jeans?), a trademark tight shirt, short jacket…

"What happened to the coat?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's spring. Too warm even for the sake of maintaining an image."

"You look smaller without it", John blurted out without thinking it through. Really, they should be having a different conversation…

"And I'm still over a head taller than you", Sherlock put his chin up. "So, how's the shopping going? Do you have any idea what to give her?"

Here we go again.

"How do you know I'm shopping for a gift for Sarah?", John wasn't truly surprised at the question but was rather uncomfortable discussing anything concerning Sarah with Sherlock. Wasn't that the sore spot so to speak?

Sherlock gave him an exasperated sigh.

"You'd never choose this place to shop for yourself. And as you have no children, a feud with your sister but you have a wife I'd say it's pretty obvious", the man smirked, "As obvious as the fact you have no idea what you should buy."

John felt a pang in his heart.

"So you got the invitation?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"Invitation?"

"Yes. The invitation to the wedding you apparently ignored", John clarified a little too hotly. He'd really hoped Sherlock would come. It may have seemed a bit heartless to ask a man who had a crush on you to be your best man but Sherlock was the only person he considered close enough to him for that role. The dismissal had hurt.

Sherlock deposited his bags on the pavement.

"I didn't get any invitation", his speech was much slower than usual, "I'm sorry. I no longer live in the Baker Street."

"I sent a text too. In fact, I sent several texts", the lameness of the excuse reminded John how cruel his friend was. And how little he cared about others.

Sherlock shrugged, looking almost apologetic and fished out his mobile.

"I changed my number."

"That's not an explanation. You should have sent me the new one."

John was watching keenly how his friend seemed to slump down in front of him. Such an actor.

"I would have", Sherlock assured, "Had I not lost my old mobile. I didn't have your number written down anywhere else."

"Lestrade has my number", John wouldn't let it rest this easily. He may have hurt Sherlock with rejecting his feelings but at least he'd always been honest. Sherlock, on the other hand, was clearly playing him false.

"If he does, then you should be aware that we don't exactly keep in touch", the frost was back in the man's voice.

That was something that had been bugging John for some time now.

"I know", he admitted, "But I wonder why you no longer wish to assist with his cases."

Sherlock bent down to pick up the bag which contents were beginning to fall out.

"Is that what he told you?"

"Well, isn't that the truth?"

"It is", Sherlock straightened up, "I simply thought he'd make up something more dramatic."

A pause.

Then.

"Did he tell you anything else?"

"No, he didn't", John shook his head. The DI had never wanted to address this matter after the initial talk. "Why did you decide you no longer wanted to help him?"

Sherlock shifted, then smiled a tight smile.

"It was getting too boring. Predictable. Come to a crime scene, you have five minutes, I won't put your name into the report. And again, come here, get there, do all our work. I wanted to do something else."

"You were never bother by that before", John frowned, "Whether or not your name is recognised. You always told me it's cases that interest you, nothing more. Certainly not what others thought."

"I still don't care", Sherlock almost looked as if he'd just been caught, "It's more about the process. It was the same every time, repetitive. Crimes may be inventive, but not the Yarders' methods."

"You didn't follow their procedures", John insisted.

"But I witnessed them. And they'd always try to hamper with my own methods."

John was far from being convinced but let it go. Maybe he no longer had the right to inquire about Sherlock's motives.

"I see", he offered, "So what do you do now? Got yourself a cosy nine-to-five job as the Bart's?", he couldn't resist this small jibe. Sherlock and a regular job. Please.

The man didn't take the bait.

"I'm a private detective."

"You detest them", John reminded flatly.

"I wouldn't call it like that."

"But you did."

Another silence. Stretching into unbearable silence.

"Well", Sherlock started, "Only a cow doesn't change its mind. I realised that being a private detective gives a lot of opportunities I just couldn't miss."

Hard to believe.

"Maybe. Still, as far as I know private detectives are rarely involved in homicide cases."

Sherlock gave him a mocking look.

"John, you sound like Donovan. Unless you're careful you may become Anderson's friend soon."

"That's not what I meant", John gritted out. Christ, that was taking it a little too far. Anderson! "You said it yourself that you always wait for serial killers or innovative murders."

Sherlock dismissed it with a flicker of hand.

"Believe me, my new cases are just as exciting."

"And probably better-paid", John noted grimly.

"Why would I care about that?"

"Because it must be nice not to rely on Mycroft."

"Sure", Sherlock laughed, "It must be."

His mobile beeped. Scrolling down the text, Sherlock's frown deepened.

"I got to go now", he tossed, "My client's waiting for me."

John wondered what he was planning to do with the bags.

"Shall I wish you good luck?", he suddenly wanted to keep Sherlock by his side for a little longer.

"You can", unfortunately, Sherlock had never been the one to be stopped, "I will solve it either way. Tell Sarah I said 'hi'. And you really deserve that new job, the old clinic was an offence to your skill."

He winked and disappeared in the crowd of passer-byes.

...

It was just past seven when John left his and Sarah's flat. Wrapping a scarf tightly around his neck (it may be spring but evenings were still chilly and there's nothing worse than a doctor falling ill in a silly way) he made his way to a pub four streets away. When he came in, Lestrade was already sitting at a table, nursing a pint. John smiled. It was relaxing, having a habit. And it was a habit, them meeting here every week.

"I've met him today", he said as soon as he was within Lestrade's hearing range.

"Met who?", the DI looked up from his beer, "That knee guy?"

"He found a new surgeon", John chuckled, remembering his troublesome patient. It was probably against the accepted code of a doctor's behaviour but he was unspeakably glad he had managed to get rid of the man. "No, I've seen Sherlock."

Lestrade put his pint down.

"What is he up to?", the DI asked apprehensively and John had to grin at him. It was remarkable, how it was the first thing people worried about when Sherlock was mentioned. Never 'how's he?' or 'where did you meet him?' but 'what he's gotten himself into this time?'.

"Playing a private detective", John provided off-handily, watching for Lestrade's reaction.

"Really?", the man sounded genuinely surprised, "That's good to hear", definitely better than 'he's sleeping in the gutter, barely conscious'. That'd been a picture haunting the DI since his last encounter with Sherlock. Only…

"Are you sure he's a private detective now?"

That was what John had been waiting for.

"He said that."

"Because you know, we tend to know about such people", Lestrade continued, as much for his sake as for John's. He wanted to believe it with all his heart but he had long ago learnt to be sceptical. "We sometimes bump into them while collecting evidence or interrogating… Sometimes a witness would let it slip. We monitor their activities, more or less, as we don't want to find them destroying the evidence or alerting culprits. They can be unprofessional at times."

"And you haven't heard of Sherlock.", John finished for him.

"No. I guess I should have." It was natural to assume Sherlock would have done something to draw Lestrade's attention to him. His own way of saying 'I don't need you. I can do it all by myself'. The DI couldn't understand why he hoped for that.

But it was still very good news that Sherlock was alright and apparently hadn't let his talent go to waste. As much as Lestrade would wish to meet him himself he was trying to convince himself that having this story told by John was equally heart-warming.

"But I'm sure he has his ways of staying unnoticed", he assured John whose face had lost its spark. "How is he?", he couldn't restrain himself. He silently prayed he would hear that Sherlock was his usual self, not the staggering addict he had thrown out of the crime scene.

"OK I think", John frown in concentration, "Nothing has changed. Infuriating as ever".

Come to think of that, Sherlock hadn't been as insufferable as John would have expected him to be. He hadn't insulted him, his sarcasm had been relatively feeble and he had been strangely subdued. But that must have been because of the Disaster. John hadn't been dumped by any of his significant others (those one-night stands didn't count) so he couldn't really say from autopsy, but maybe his rejection had made Sherlock act like this. His friend must have felt uneasy in his company, as if he had expected John to address his foolish confession any moment. John had to scowl at that: he had far too much sympathy to try to remind Sherlock of his misplaced feelings. That was the very same reason for which he would not bring it up now in the presence of Lestrade.

"That's… Comforting", the DI grinned.

He couldn't really tell John about his fears. As far as he knew, John was blissfully unaware of what had followed his disappearance from the 221b and he suspected that Sherlock would prefer it to stay this way. If he had gotten himself under control and back to his usual self, Lestrade had no right to ruin the reputation he had in John's eyes. Despite what he told all witnesses in his job, he would remain silent about what he had seen.

"He's currently on a case", John carried on, "He left in a hurry."

"I hope he won't forget his head rushing onto one of his chases", Lestrade felt compelled to reply in a similar tone. He was itching to ask about Sherlock's excuse for not attending John's wedding, but again decided it's not his place to inquire. What if Sherlock had not been fit, so to speak, to turn up? What if John's abrupt urge to leave the Baker Street had been more complex than a simple desire to be with Sarah?

"He may forget his hands, but never his head", John noted imagining Sherlock forgetting about any sort of weapon while going after an armed criminal.

"If I'm unlucky enough I may soon hear about him", Lestrade made a face.

"Stealing your cases again?"

"God I hope not. I've been working for some recognition here", the DI smiled picking up his pint, "Wouldn't want the brat to steal my show."

John had known all about Lestrade's recent successes. It had turned out that even without Sherlock's help the DI was more than capable and resourceful. His team had solved several cases in the last few months and Lestrade had been starting to get more and more applause from his superiors.

"How's the investigation going?", John stole a peanut from a small bowl near Lestrade's elbow.

"Closed", Lestrade didn't look half as pleased as he should, "The suspect finally confessed after we'd collected all the data."

"Congratulations", John realised he didn't have a pint to raise.

"Thanks", Lestrade snorted.

"Something went wrong after all?"

"No, all was perfect. Too perfect. So perfect I got delegated to a banquet as 'the most promising man at the Yard'", Lestrade had been boiling with the need to get it out of his system.

"At least they're no longer pretending not to notice you and your team."

"They should have better given me a pay rise, not an invitation to a party."

"They care about your social life."

Lestrade huffed, so John continued, "People dealing with homicide tend to have terrible social skills. They worry you'll begin to yell at your witnesses."

Lestrade glared, "Sod off."

"That's exactly what you told that poor woman last time. See what I mean?"

"I thought she was from the press."

Lestrade had such a miserable face that John had to laugh.

"I'm glad to see you find me making an idiot of myself that funny", Lestrade scoffed, grinning, "You should regret you won't see me at the banquet."

"It can't be that bad. You deal with murderers, surely few local upstarts won't scare you."

"It's at the City Hall", Lestrade sounded sour, "The Mayor, the Assembly members, some politicians. All of those people who actually have some power and few sods like me invited there in acknowledgement of their 'service', who should feel grateful for being given the chance to look at the first category."

John winced.

"Do you have to go?"

"Have you tried saying 'no' to my boss?"

"No."

"Well, I have. I didn't see a day-off for a year."

...

Lestrade hadn't been lying when he had been telling John he had no wish to go to the banquet. He didn't expect to meet anyone he knew there, much less someone he knew and could talk to for longer than five minutes. He had spent three days fretting over the state of his suit (or rather had begun to fret over it after Sally had seen it), then he had grown desperate enough to offer he'd take Sally's night shift if only she would change places with him. Of course she hadn't and (the ultimate betrayal) she was even driving him to the Hall, least he cowardly ran away in the last moment.

"Enjoy yourself, boss", she waved at him after pushing him out of the car.

"I swear you're not going to see a field work for a century", he mumbled nervously playing with the buttons of his coat.

But she only smiled and drove away.

Technically, he could still run away under the pretext of a sudden attack of indigestion. It may even become true unless he stopped this trace of thought now. He was so engrossed in the idea that he almost punched a man who patted his shoulder.

"Lestrade? Gregory Lestrade? I'd never thought I'd meet you here!"

Awkwardly, Lestrade shook his hand with the Mayor's secretary. He had met the man once before, on a case and he could swear the secretary knew more gossip than all old ladies from London put together.

"I can't really say the same about you", he smiled and felt himself be led towards the entrance. So much for the sudden indigestion.

...

The man was driving him mad. Lestrade could agree with the point that it was in his job's description to gather as much information as possible but he truly didn't share Paul's need to know everything about everybody, certainly not the details about who slept with who or whose dog had cost the most. He was beginning to understand what Sherlock might have meant every time he had said he'd been bored to death. Lestrade was reaching the peak of boredom, slowly losing contact with the reality when a man who had just stepped into the lounge caught his attention.

"What is he doing here?", he blurted out before he could bite his tongue.

Paul followed his line of sight and then turned back to him with a new-found respect.

"The Mayor is one of his friends", the secretary provided in a pretty posh accent he definitely hadn't been using before. Funny how Mycroft Holmes influenced people.

"Right", Lestrade snorted, sure that the elder Holmes may have surpassed his brother in the number of his friends. Or rather the lack of them.

"You know each other?", Paul sounded like a school girl. Lestrade had to hide a grin that was forming on his lips.

"You could say that. We've met four times."

Yeah. Once when he had arrested Sherlock for possession, once when Mycroft had unsuccessfully tried to retrieve his brother from Lestrade's flat, once when Sherlock had contaminated the evidence what put his boss on a killing spree and once Mycroft had come to 'ask' for excluding one particular name from the report. Lestrade was sure he could have sent one of his minions but given it had been his brother's name he may have felt compelled to personally take care of that.

But Paul didn't have to know that his relation to Mycroft Holmes was reduced to more or less saving his wayward brother's arse. Judging by the secretary's expression the sole fact he recognised the man made him an ace of the British intelligence. He could work with that. He could certainly got used to the look of pure admiration.

Then, a new figure appeared just behind Mycroft, more scurrying than strolling after him. It took Lestrade a good minute to recognise Sherlock. The man (boy? He looked awfully small, even with his impressive height) was wearing a suit but something was wrong with the picture. His hair seemed a bit longer than he could remember but not even bordering on untidy, his complexion was white, not pale but that might be because of the dark suit… What was amiss, then? The way the first two or three buttons of Sherlock's shirt were unbuttoned? But the man never bothered with ties or bowties, surely he would have ignored Mycroft's advice to dress accordingly to the occasion. The way he appeared to be skeletal in his tight clothes? But his clothes had always been tight before.

Then it finally hit Lestrade. Of course! It was the figure, the entire posture. Sherlock was making a great effort to look unobtrusive… No wrong. It didn't seem to be a conscious act on his behalf, he was looking subdued, nothing similar to the way he would normally barge into a room as if he owned it, creating his own aura of power. He looked like a lost child now, following his older brother, basking in his glory but for nothing more than using it for protection. What was he trying to achieve? No one who had ever met Sherlock Holmes would buy this act.

Lestrade decided to risk it.

"And who's that?", he motioned to Sherlock with his head.

Unsurprisingly, Paul made a face. Sherlock always lived to expectations.

"Mr Holmes's escort for tonight", he provided reluctantly, causing Lestrade to choke on his own saliva.

"Pardon me? Escort?" That was a very unfortunate choice of words.

"Yes", Paul didn't seem to get what was wrong with that in Lestrade's opinion, "His… Partner."

"Partner", Lestrade repeated dumbly. Sherlock would have a feast hearing him now, "Partner as in…"

"As in partner. Lover. Though the term 'boy toy' is much more suitable."

"Come on", Lestrade gave Paul a long blank stare, "You must be kidding me. A boy toy?"

Sherlock Holmes, a boy toy? Of his own brother? Next thing he'd hear was that China was joining the EU.

"I trust that's the word", Paul declared, then lowered his voice, "He's been assisting Mr Holmes to most of the events recently and as far as we all know, Mr Holmes is providing him with everything…"

"Yes", that Lestrade was ready to believe. As far as *he* knew, Mycroft had been supporting Sherlock financially since before he had met him. "But that hardly means they're you know… An item. A lot of people give others an allowance." For the lack of the better word.

"But not many pay back with kisses, do they?", Paul sneered.

Kisses? That was getting ridiculous.

"What's more", Paul babbled enthusiastically, "Rumour has it they're relatives. Can you imagine that? Mycroft Holmes having an affair with his relative, now that's something worth mentioning…"

"As you said, it's a rumour", Lestrade interrupted him sternly.

Paul immediately caught up on the inclination.

"Of course, I'm sorry. I realise you and Mr Holmes are good acquaintances… No, no, don't give me that look, Detective Inspector, what I want to say is that's alright. Even if it's true, which is probably not, no one will mind Mr Holmes sleeping, to be a little vulgar, with his own cousin or brother. But you must know that Mycroft Holmes is not a person who has to abide to any social rules. He's indispensable, in the best meaning of that world, I mean…"

The secretary's stuttering voice was making Lestrade's skin crawl.

"Alright, I get it", he cut in, suddenly irritated, "Mycroft Holmes has so much power no one would dare to raise objections to his private matters. Right?"

For a fleeting moment he fantasised how would it feel to be Mycroft Holmes. But then he remembered the man's forced fake smiles and he abandoned the idea.

...

He was helping himself to refreshments when a steady, overly polite voice rang in his ear.

"Oh, Detective Inspector Lestrade, what a surprise."

Lestrade didn't spare Mycroft a glance.

"It must be a great surprise indeed, considering you must have inspected the guest list quite closely, had you not prepared it in the first place", he finally turned back to be greeted with one of Mycroft's trademark smiles.

"I can understand my brother's willingness to work with you given your sharp wits", another long, mocking drawl.

"He has a soft spot for sharp wits", Lestrade replied not losing a beat, "That must be a reason he's acting as your boy toy now. Really, Mycroft, that's a bit low, even for you", he hoped he's not signing his death warrant. He may be being paranoiac, but if he had ever been truly and deeply afraid of anyone in his life it must be the man he was facing.

To his shock, Mycroft's face fell.

"So you've heard."

"It doesn't seem to be a secret round here", Lestrade pointed to the lounge's occupants with his head.

"I guess it's not", Mycroft was resigned.

It was nagging Lestrade to shake him.

"You're not making it a secret", he scorned, unreasonably offended by the brothers' 'relationship'.

"Probably not", the man shrugged. "You look angry, Inspector. I don't blame you, I'm hating it myself."

"Oh really?", Lestrade couldn't keep a mock out of his voice.

"Yes", Mycroft affirmed emotionlessly, "But what would you have me do?"

"Well, not treat him like a kept boy, dragging him after you to banquets?"

Mycroft's features hardened.

"And what exactly makes you think it's me dragging him?"

Lestrade blinked. Surely Mycroft wasn't implying…

"Yes, my dear Inspector, it's not my idea. I resent it as much as you do."

"Please, don't try to make me believe it's Sherlock who wants to be your boy toy! He detests you!"

After Lestrade's quiet outburst, both men turned to look at the younger Holmes, now chatting with a young woman near the side entrance. Sherlock was actually smiling at her, clearly keeping the conversation entertaining and pleasant. Sherlock. Was. Keeping. A. Pleasant. Conversation.

Lestrade shook his head to get himself under control.

"Why?", he managed to choke out.

Mycroft looked grim.

"Now, 'why' is a good question. I'm afraid I can't provide you with an answer, though. I believe you've known my brother for long enough to realise his motives are highly obscure to those involved in his schemes."

"You want me to believe that he turned up on your doorstep one day and demanded you made him your lover."

Mycroft tsk-ed.

"Lestrade, try being more insightful. Apparently, he's not my lover. I'm not perverted enough to take my own brother to my bed, it's simply a ruse."

"Why would he want to act as your lover?"

"My boy toy. His words exactly", Mycroft pursed his lips, "I'm fairly certain I've already told you I don't know. I'm also positive that you're aware how difficult it is to say 'no' to my brother. He decided it's a perfect game for now. He gets to use my money freely, he's constantly destroying the harmony of my house and work, I have to take him to all the important events I attend. In return, I'm getting my reputation ruined."

"If it's so, why are you letting him?", Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft gave him another tight smile.

"I don't wish to find out what he'd do if I turned him away."

Lestrade opened his mouth only to close it again. He took a discreet peek at Sherlock again. Yes, he could see Mycroft's point, he had witnessed several self-destructive actions on Sherlock's part. If he was set on being somebody's boy toy (why? Did he need money? What for? Drugs? No, Mycroft wouldn't allow him) it was probably for the best that Mycroft was his choice. He might have actually seduced some stranger, not that anyone other than his brother would be willing to put up with him for long. And it was very like Sherlock to be inconsiderate of what his act was costing his brother.

"It's kind of you to worry, but utterly unneeded", Mycroft's smooth voice brought him back to present, "I could probably marry my own mother and no one would call it offensive."

Lestrade could swear the man was reading his mind.

"They may not say it aloud, but they certainly think so", he noted.

"I don't like to be viewed as a victim, but call it a willing sacrifice on my part."

With that, Mycroft walked away.

...

Using the first opportunity he got, Lestrade approached Sherlock. The man hadn't been aware of his presence until they were separated by a mere step. Only then did he turn towards Lestrade. His eyes widened comically and the DI was positive he was ready to bolt.

"Nice ruse you have going there, Sherlock", he said in a way of greetings.

"You've spoken to Mycroft", Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Yes, I have. One gets curious when he learns his friend has become his own brother's lover."

Sherlock seemed to collect himself quickly.

"I may be mistaken", he started in a tone that may it clear he wasn't, "But it's none of your business. And as far as I know, friends don't kick each other out of a crime scene."

Was he still mad about that?

"You were putting us all in a pretty messy situation", he pinned Sherlock with a hard glare, "I may be willing to reconsider it if you're clean."

Sherlock chuckled, his dark curls shaking. Lestrade eyed him warily.

"I live with Mycroft, for heaven's sake, how do you imagine I could get away with drugs?", he looked genuinely amused.

"I guess you couldn't", Lestrade admitted, feeling suddenly light-hearted. So the pallor was just the effect of the black shirt.

"I couldn't, Big Brother and all of that."

They looked up, measuring each other. Brown eyes scanned the thin figure in front of him with barely hidden warmth, while the blue ones were inspecting the other man closely, surgically. Lestrade was beginning to get uncomfortable.

"You have far more grey hair than you used to."

Trust Sherlock to compliment you.

"It's called 'aging', Sherlock", Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Not something I can control."

"I've never said it's a bad thing."

"And I didn't say…"

"No, you didn't. But you thought about it. You're probably ashamed of it, but I can't really understand why. It could be so much worse", a dramatic pause, "You could look like Mycroft."

To say that Lestrade was taken aback was an understatement. He almost died of shock when Sherlock kept staring at him with something akin to apprehension until the DI felt obliged to smile. It was as close to a compliment that he would ever get from the young man. To make it even weirder, Sherlock grinned at him.

"I've talked to John", Lestrade decided that it was time to change the subject. For all he knew, he might have been reading too much into Sherlock's words. His experience told him that Sherlock rarely paid much mind to what left his lips.

"So have I."

"He's been worrying about you all that time", Lestrade wouldn't let the matter drop. John had been getting frantic without any news about Sherlock and the DI himself had had nothing to comfort him with.

Sherlock didn't grace him with a reply. He just carried on staring at him, his arms tightly crossed. The air conditioning must be bothering him, given his flimsy garment.

"You didn't reply to the wedding invitation."

"I didn't *get* it", Sherlock glared, "And I've already had this talk with John, so leave it."

Lestrade pressed his lips into a tight line, turning to a buffet next to them. He pretended to be interested in the salads, keenly aware of Sherlock's eyes locked on him. Lazily, he began to move to his left, further and further away…

Four swift steps and there was Sherlock hovering over his shoulder. Predictable, after all. Lestrade had to fight down an urge to grin.

"Have you told him about the Notting Hill case?", the young man couldn't keep nervousness out of his voice.

Oh, so that was what had been bothering Sherlock from the very beginning, his image in John Watson's eyes.

"No, I haven't", he assured, seeing no point in delaying it, "I think that it should be your decision, whether or not to inform him."

Sherlock stepped back a bit, then started to inspect the buffet himself.

"A 'thank you' would be in tow", Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock tilted his head to him, a frown marring his forehead.

"I have nothing for which I should feel grateful."

Lestrade felt his insides getting hot. What had he been expecting? Gratitude? Not with this man.

He huffed.

"I could have told John you're an incurable junkie."

Sherlock gave him a curious look.

"And why should I worry about that? You already think so."

With that, he returned to the buffet.

Lestrade's mouth twitched. Just what was that? Another failed attempt at maintaining the 'sociopath' persona or a subtle hint that Lestrade's opinion was valued more than John's?

Shrugging the matter off for a later consideration, Lestrade put some Greece salad on his plate. He was turning to find a fork when an olive was snatched from it.

He gave Sherlock a hard glare but the man only smirked.

"I like olives."

"Take the salad then."

"But I only like olives."

Recognising a fight he couldn't win when he saw one, Lestrade simply helped himself to some beverage. Then… Another olive was stolen. He ignored it. From what John had told him, disappearing food was an often occurrence in the Baker Street.

Another one.

And another.

"You shouldn't be letting me", Sherlock informed, chewing at the olive.

"What choice do I have other than punching you?", Lestrade snorted.

"Surprise me. But I'm actually being helpful, people may talk and you may not find it pleasant. After all, eating from one plate is usually considered a part of flirtation."

"You're not flirting with me", Lestrade clarified, blocking a hand reaching for his plate.

"It's irrelevant. I'm a boy toy, that's what I'm expected to do: trying to hit on everything that moves and looks relatively handsome and wealthy."

"Thanks God I'm not wealthy then", Lestrade murmured under his breath.

"But you're handsome", Sherlock took advantage of the puzzlement his words created and snatched the last remaining olive from the plate.

"Thief", Lestrade said to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock (no surprise here) didn't seem to be moved in the slightest. "Your sugar daddy may not appreciate that."

"He may want to increase my allowance to keep me at his side", Sherlock replied eagerly.

Too eagerly. And too playfully.

"Speaking about which, Sherlock", Lestrade's tone changed to serious, "I don't know what you're playing at *and* I probably don't want to find out, but maybe you should be a little bit more considerate to your brother."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed almost unnoticeably.

"He hardly deserves my consideration."

"You're using him. Without any thought about the consequences."

"I've never been good at consequences", Sherlock shot back.

"Maybe it's time to grow up."

"I'm taller than you."

"It's never been about the *height*. I mean it, Sherlock, people are bound to find out you're his bloody brother."

Lestrade doubted that would get to Sherlock but he felt compelled to try anyway.

"No one's foolish enough to try to check up Mycroft", Sherlock sounded sour, "Even if they do, no one is foolish enough to try to use it against him."

"They're already talking…"

"People do little else", Sherlock was clearly being defensive there, a bit of wavering creeping into his voice, "They need a proof."

Lestrade could only shake his head. Did Sherlock truly believe that? If so, he was even more immature than he'd thought.

"They don't need a proof. Rumour can destroy countries, an individual stands no chance against it."

Why was he so desperate to make Sherlock see reason? Was it for Mycroft's sake or Sherlock's? Why did it bother him that Sherlock was seen as nothing more than a rich man's plaything? It was his own choice, for Pete's sake!

"Mycroft *is* the government. Almost a country. I think I'll take the risk", he was ready to leave, but Lestrade quickly grabbed his arm.

"If you need a cover, find someone else."

"What? Are you offering?", Sherlock's eyes were mocking, "No, Lestrade, I *need* Mycroft", he wrenched himself free from the hold.

How can one word hold so much venom, loathing, desperation and regret?

...

A/N Comments? Feel free to inflict your opinion on the world ;)


	3. Bodyguard

Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_.

Gabbyluv23: Thanks ^^

setsuko teshiba: Well, that's my secret for now ;)

NyteKit: I love the image too. Probably because it seems so out of character for him.

...

**Bodyguard**

...

The shift had been an uneventful one, he hadn't even had to leave his office for any other reason than visiting a toilette, which was a perfect development as far as Lestrade was concerned, given his state. And no, he didn't have a hangover like Sally had suggested. It was just that two hours of sleep combined with over forty eight hours of stress tended to have that effect on people.

He was already packing his stuff, ready to head home when the door of his office opened and Sally walked it, frowning when she saw him. Realising he was looking at her expectantly, she cleared her throat.

"I thought you're not here", she announced sounding sour.

"Well, I am", Lestrade stopped trying to fit a folder into his bag. Before he could ask her to get over with it, she closed the door and whispered conspiratorially.

"I know, but you may want not to be here."

He blinked. As far as he was concerned, he hadn't made a fool of himself at the banquet and delivered all the reports, so his boss had little to be pissed about. Waiting for Sally to explain, he mentally repeated everything he was responsible for that may have gone wrong.

"I will tell them you've just left, after all your shift is over", she assured in the same urgent tone.

"I", Lestrade concealed his chuckle, "Appreciate your offer, but what exactly is that you want to spare me from?"

Commenting about her boss being more than a dutiful officer, Sally huffed.

"Just don't take it out on me later", she warned and he picked up his hands to show she was safe no matter what dreadful news she had brought. Never hurt the messenger etc.

"The banquet you attended?", she started, "When did you leave?"

"Just after 3 a.m.", Lestrade replied automatically. He'd just known that going there couldn't end well.

"Right", her face confirmed that he wouldn't hear anything pleasant now, "So you wouldn't know."

"Know what?", he demanded, depositing the folder on his desk with a loud thud, "Sally, just spit it out", he didn't intend to sound that nervous but the banquet had been haunting him.

She shook his head to calm him down.

"Jesus, boss, they're not accusing you of drinking too much wine."

Of course not, he hadn't drunk any.

Just after saying this half-hearted joke, Sally's features hardened giving him the impression that the wine incident would have been a piece of cake compared to what had happened.

"Sally", he urged walking up to her.

"Oh, yeah", her head snapped up to meet his eyes, "That's pretty messy. Two hours after you'd left, they found a body there."

"Shit. Who?", Sherlock's face came to his mind unbidden, "Who?"

Sally sent him a suspicious glance.

"I'm checking up", she scanned a paper she was holding, "Ellie McKenzie, 38. Used to work at the Assembly. Murdered", she added as if it wasn't obvious.

Lestrade was aware that Sally was expecting him to recall the woman, but honestly, the only people he had spoken to at the banquet had been Paul, Mycroft and Sherlock. He didn't wish to ponder what that said about him.

"I don't believe we met", he said for Sally's sake.

"I wasn't holding my hopes high", she smiled knowing full-well that her boss wasn't exactly a social butterfly.

"If she was found in the morning", Lestrade's brows furrowed, "Why alerting us now? Almost twelve hours have passed…"

"They did call in the morning", Sally cut in, "Only Burton's team got the case."

"Burton?", not that Lestrade had anything against Burton, his surprise was mostly caused by the fact that Burton had been a DI for only two months and with all due respect, in dire need of some training. That was the very first case he didn't share with Lestrade or other older colleague.

"Yep", Sally had always been far more vocal with her opinions about Burton, "Shockingly", she giggled, "He's already botching it up and requesting your help. Begging for it would be a more suitable term", she smirked.

"Please, Sally", Lestrade really tried to sound at least a bit scolding, "He's been doing fine."

"Boss, I know you're awfully well-mannered", Sally was slightly laughing now, "But this guy is one of those reasons why people don't trust the Yard."

Hard to disagree with that. However, to maintain a straight face, he only asked what was that with what Burton had 'requested' his help.

Sally wrinkled her nose.

"Apparently, he's not handling his witness well."

"He has a witness?", now that was a pleasant surprise.

"A figure of speech", Sally mumbled under her breath.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that yes, he does have a witness", she paused, "Only he hasn't interrogated him yet."

Not an understandable delay, but it still looked promising.

"Why not? Why do I have to ask for every single thing?", he managed to keep his tone light, but Sally's monosyllabic answer were beginning to irritate him.

She seemed not to pay it any mind.

"Well", she drawled, "He's been indisposed."

Lestrade could only repeat dumbly after her.

"Indisposed? Was he hurt along with McKenzie?", that would explain the wait.

"Oh no", Sally picked up her chin, "The doctor says it's all self-administered."

"Doctor? Shit, Sally, what happened to the bloke?", Lestrade was already at the door.

"So you are going to help", she noted in an offended voice, "You're going to regret it. Take friendly advice."

"Don't be ridiculous", he had a suspicion she was serious about it, "It's just an interrogation, the case is Burton's."

"He won't be of any help", Sally carried on, "The witness. Just a waste of your time. He doesn't remember anything, I bet he wouldn't come up with his bloody name if you asked him quickly…"

"Sally", he pinned her with his glare, "Don't talk like that about a *witness*. He must be frightened to death."

"Doubt it", she was smirking again, "You'll see it yourself. Not a pleasant sight, by the way."

Not in a mood to banter with her, Lestrade turned on his feet and stormed down the corridor.

...

Lestrade had no problems finding Burton. The DI was leaning against a wall near one of the interrogation rooms, the most airy and bright one, as they were to talk to a witness not a suspect. By the way, it seemed strange to bring a witness who was clearly unwell to the police station rather than let him recover.

"Lestrade!", Burton visibly relaxed when he spotted the grey-haired man, "Thank God you're here, that was getting tragicomic…"

"He's not cooperating?", call him old-fashioned, but Lestrade never found a murder tragicomic.

Burton must have picked it up, because he shifted uncomfortably, planning what to say.

"I'm not sure", Burton sounded close to tears, "He's been awake for only two hours. I was sure the murderer got to him too, he looked awful when we found him, I mean it…"

"Facts", Lestrade snapped. He didn't need Burton whining over the witness's appearance.

That got Burton under control. Lestrade hid a smirk when he watched as Burton schooled his features in a mask of a competent Yarder (disputable), as if ashamed of his act in front of Greg.

"Here you go", he took a deep breath, "A man who discovered the body found him along with the corpse. Behind a bookcase of some sort, according to him."

"So he may have seen the murderer", Lestrade was just too happy to learn that.

"He should have, but I'm fairly certain he didn't. He says as much."

Yeah, too happy.

"Look", Lestrade sighed, "I don't even begin to understand why both you and Donovan just won't tell me the whole story. The guy was there but didn't see anything… Wait is he blind?"

Burton shook his head.

"So he's not blind, he's been to a doctor. Why?"

"We thought he'd been poisoned."

The murderer poisoned the witness? Why, if he had shot the victim?

"But he was…", Lestrade started, motioning to Burton to finally let it out.

"Stoned. We would have been arresting him for possession if he wasn't the only witness."

Great.

...

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a plastic chair, well, "sitting" was giving him too much credit. He was managing to keep his arse on it and given the not-quite-there quality of his eyes it was a huge success. He was white as a sheet, his eyes red, shirt undone, propping on a table in front of him. He must have had a hell of a headache. Serves him right, the lying bastard.

Lestrade swung the door open, causing the young man to pick his eyes up (neck being far too immobile to move the head). Sherlock blinked few times and opened his mouth to speak, a smirk forming on his pale lips.

Lestrade balled his fist.

"Sherlock… Holmes, right?", he pretended to check it in the file.

Sherlock's smirk died. Oh, so he wasn't so out of it that he didn't catch up on the implication of that question.

"Yes", then he tried nevertheless, "What…"

Lestrade cut him short.

"Age 27?"

Sherlock was ready to demand he stopped the act but the DI continued mercilessly.

"Born on…", he waited for the witness to provide the information.

"January the 6th", Sherlock leaned back as if to mock Lestrade but it made him so dizzy he had to lower his head all the way down to his knees.

"Feeling indisposed?", Lestrade was curious, in a detached way, if the man was going to throw up.

Indisposed was rather far from it. Even the expression 'feeling sick' had long ago stopped to describe the way his mouth was dry, his head *and* heart pounding, his limbs wobbly… No, he wasn't getting in the details.

There was no dignity to talk about, yet he still refused to acknowledge the question. He was afraid to open his lips right now and not because of the words that may leave them.

"It takes an impressive level of stupidity to mix drugs with alcohol", Lestrade noted and Sherlock came to a conclusion that the saying 'you don't kick a man who's already down' wasn't as devoid of sense as he used to think.

Not that he actually recalled the alcohol.

"I didn't do that", he said experimentally to learn the answer from the DI.

"No of course not", Lestrade gritted out, "We simply faked the result of your blood test."

So maybe he had accepted the glass that that man had been offering him. Hard to tell. But one glass wouldn't have left him in such a pitiful state so more must have followed. Probably after the talk with Lestrade.

He was prevented from replying, just when he was ready with a neat remark, by another wave of dizziness which made him sway in his seat. He was preparing himself to meet the floor when he felt a pair of strong arms picking him up and helping him to keep upright.

"Shit, Sherlock", he heard the frantic voice, "What did you take?"

Few more breaths and he was convinced it was safe to attempt to speak.

"The usual", he said dismissively but didn't notice the dark look passing over Lestrade's face, "I don't know what's going on…", he was aware of the panicked tone his voice held but seriously, he had no idea what was happening. He had taken more and barely felt it and now he was close to losing consciousness, hell, he had been unconscious for a couple of hours.

The warm hands left him to pick up the doctor's report and he had to bite his tongue not to whine at the loss.

"It's not only cocaine", the DI pursed his lips, "Can you hear me, what did you take other than cocaine?"

Sherlock's frame shook when Lestrade nudged him to answer and for a minute he was scared the man was having a collapse. Then it hit him that he just didn't know.

Lestrade took a step back, suddenly afraid he'd just smack Sherlock for his idiocy. How could he, no, how could anyone be that irresponsible? Stupid arrogant sod, thinking that just because he happened to be more intelligent than an average person he was allowed to do whatever the hell he wished! At least there had been consequences this time, but knowing Sherlock he would learn nothing and repeat the mistake over and over…

Exactly. Some dark, unexplored part of his mind seemed to silently cheer up. How many years had passed?

"You had cocaine on you", he informed dispassionately.

Sherlock could only nod. If Lestrade said so…

"We should have arrested you. They didn't do it just because you're a witness."

It wouldn't have been the first time and they both knew that. Sherlock was too sick to remember anything, but Lestrade could play the events of their 'old days' in his head without trouble. The same sickly pallor, shaking hands, uneven breath, slow slurred speech. Sherlock may claim that drugs kept him more alert and they probably could in small and irregular doses but he had never known when to stop. It had been always controlling him, not the other way around.

Nothing had ever changed. Few months of solving cases, superman coat and silent glory had passed like a lightening. Those hours spent at the station, cells, back alleys had stretched into ages.

"Does Mycroft know?", he asked wearily.

Sherlock stiffened.

"Probably. There was a murder at his party."

"Will he come?"

A snort.

"Has he ever come?"

"He did once", Lestrade felt obliged to remind, "During your third stay here."

Sherlock tilted his head and gave him a long look over. Or at least attempted to.

"He'll come if he wishes so", he shrugged and Lestrade took a note how thin his shoulders were, "Depends on how much I managed to shame him at the banquet."

Lestrade hadn't thought of that. He had completely forgotten about the boy toy charade. Despite his curiosity, he fought down the urge to ask. It had been made clear it was none of his business.

Instead further questioning, he scanned Burton's scribbling in the notepad, preparing a line of interrogating. Following procedures for once when Sherlock was concerned may help him to keep a healthy distance. Playing 'friends' may not be the best idea under those circumstances.

"To start with…", he spoke up, eyes still glued on the text, "When did you go into that room?"

Nothing.

The, he heard a faint rustle and picked up his head only to see that his precious witness was grumbling at him from somewhere underneath the table.

"I may be overreacting", he commented drily, "But maybe we should postpone this conversation. I'm afraid they won't find the answers of a table legitimate in the court."

Sherlock moved, eliciting what was probably supposed to be a grunt of frustration.

"Sorry?", Lestrade leant over the table so he was now observing the man's back.

He could see Sherlock's muscles tense in response.

"Go ahead, Lestrade", he growled faintly, "I assure you there's nothing to worry about. Certainly not the court, they'll accept anything as long as it shortens the trial."

Lestrade almost blurted that the court drastically paled in comparison to Sherlock's state. But as he was clearly capable of sarcasm, he was probably able to withstand the interrogation.

"So", his tone was strictly professional again, "How did you end up in the adjoining office where the murder was committed later?", he began to watch Sherlock expectantly.

...

_He was feeling pleasantly detached from his surrounding, all the people little but a buzzing haze around him. After few initial minutes of wandering aimlessly from one group of giggling women to another, he managed to locate Mycroft and made a beeline to him._

"_Mycroft", he said in his well-practised tone of a petulant toddler and could see a slight frown of irritation appearing on his brother's forehead. But he was set on ignoring Sherlock._

_A quick glance at those next to him explained it: Mycroft was apparently in company of his co-workers._

"_Mycroft", he whined, forcing his way between two impressively built men._

_They're obvious displeasure left Mycroft with no other choice but to react._

"_What do you want?", the elder Holmes snapped through gritted teeth._

"_What are you doing?", Mycroft was now standing at the arm's length, so Sherlock could simply turn his face to him and blink with big innocent eyes._

"_It's none of your business", came a stern reply. Not surprising given his status of an 'escort'._

"_But I'm bored", that was the truth, plain and simple. He somehow managed to attach himself to Mycroft's arm and was now caressing it subtly with his fingers._

"_Go entertain yourself", they were catching Mycroft's friends' attention._

"_It's no fun alone", he half-whined, half-purred, standing on his toes so he could reach Mycroft's ear, "Come with me."_

_One or two women forgot their manners and were openly staring at them. After all, they had spent long hours wondering what kind of relationship Mr Holmes shared with a young man trailing after him._

"_Get lost", Mycroft whispered menacingly, low enough so only his brother could hear him._

"_But Mycroft", Sherlock, on the other hand, did nothing to keep his words secret, "I want you with me, I'm bored alone…", to emphasise how much he valued Mycroft's company, he gently nipped at his ear._

_He felt his brother's strong attempt at dislodging him, but only bit the said ear in response._

"_Mycroft", he demanded to have his wish granted with a quick peck followed by a lick. _

_That made the women abandon all decorum and gasp and Mycroft to lose his normally stoic patience. Before Sherlock could see what hit him, Mycroft had him in a bruising hold, hauling him away from his co-workers. At their abrupt leave, he could hear the words 'drunk' and 'whore' repeated in both male and female voices._

"_What do you think you're doing?", the furious tone was accompanied with a vigorous shake that made Sherlock's teeth clatter. Somewhere in the back of his head, somewhere where he was still able of observing and making connections, he admitted that Mycroft was probably good at his job. To every passer-by it would seem that Mycroft was simply leading Sherlock through the crowd like a gentleman. No one would notice the vice-like grip on Sherlock's forearm bent at an unnatural angle._

_Finally, they reached a secluded corner of the lobby and Sherlock was pushed away, almost colliding with a wall. Unaffected, he turned to Mycroft, smiling sweetly._

"_I'm your boy toy", he reminded victoriously, "Isn't that how boy toys act? Don't you like getting kissed by your little boy toy?"_

_For a moment Mycroft's expression was that of pure hatred, then in a flicker of second it softened into something akin to parental understanding. It made Sherlock sick._

"_You're drunk", Mycroft sounded as if something sour had been put on his tongue._

"_And high", Sherlock added rebelliously._

_It went unaddressed._

"_How did you manage to get yourself into such pitiful condition in such a short time is beyond me", Mycroft was an epitome of disapproval, as usual when dealing with his brother, "But I'd be obliged if you kept it to yourself. Unless you require a ride home", his glare meant it clear that was what he wanted Sherlock to do, "I advise you to stay away from me. While I have no choice about being seen with a 'kept boy'", he spat, "I'd rather be not seen with a drunk kept boy who can't control himself."_

_He spun on his heels to leave._

_As if Sherlock would let him._

_In a split of second, he was in front of Mycroft, leaning close to his face. Mycroft's disgust made him chuckle inwardly._

"_Come on, I may be a drunk kept boy but don't pretend you don't notice all those jealous glances we're getting", he licked his lips for the spectators' sake._

_He was pushed aside angrily._

"_I'm bored", he whined when Mycroft was few feet away, "You can't hold me responsible for what I'll do."_

_That made Mycroft reconsider. While he could certainly hold Sherlock responsible he could in no way prevent his brother from acting up. And knowing his past antics, there was no punishment fitting the crime._

_However, rather than sigh heavily and motion at Sherlock to follow, Mycroft pursed his lips and grabbed him again, dragging him towards a dark door on the left._

_Sherlock started to squirm but shit, Mycroft was strong. Must be all that fat on his belly – size superiority and all. Before he could form a suitable theory in his mind, Mycroft had already hauled him inside._

"_Now that you've showed that no all cavemen have died off", Sherlock hissed massaging his arm, "Let me go."_

_Mycroft arched a brow._

"_I don't think so, little brother."_

"_Don't call me that!"_

_A patronising huff._

"_Childish, so childish", he checked the time on his watch, "It'd be appreciated if you willingly stayed here until I come to retrieve you."_

_Sherlock crossed his arms, his eyes mocking._

"_Make me."_

_Silently Mycroft advanced, causing Sherlock to back away despite himself. He felt his back hitting a wall – or rather a bookcase. Mycroft reached out for his arm. Sherlock tensed up, but didn't protest when his arm was lifted._

"_I trust I don't have to", Mycroft smiled his fake smile, his thumb lightly petting the crook of Sherlock's elbow._

_Soon Sherlock wrenched his arm free, cradling it to his chest. He sneered at his brother._

"_Enjoy your wait, little brother", Mycroft literally sing-songed, re-adjusting Sherlock's jacket._

_... _

"Sherlock", Lestrade shook his witness's frame, "That's not funny, either speak up or I'll get someone to take you back to the doctor!"

The DI concealed the worry in his voice well, so well that Sherlock didn't detect it. Slowly and painfully, he picked up his head.

"There's no need to return me here."

"If so", Lestrade snapped, "Just answer my bloody question! Why were you there?"

He twitched under Sherlock's searching look and inwardly breathed in relief when the man shrugged and leaned back in the plastic chair.

"I assume I don't have to explain to you that I'm not an overly social person. I simply needed to get away from the crowd."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"Was it after or before you got yourself drunk?"

Sherlock chuckled, stretching his long legs.

"In the middle", he looked as insolent as he sounded, obviously feeling better at the moment, "But I understand you may find it helpful that I had some… Refreshments with me, to keep boredom at bay."

"Of course. Heaven forbid Sherlock Holmes got bored", Lestrade scribbled down some nonsense, "What time was it when you went there?"

Mycroft's watch appeared in Sherlock's mind.

"12.46."

"Impressive accuracy for a delinquent", Lestrade noted.

"A witness", Sherlock corrected with a smirk.

"A delinquent who also happens to be a witness", Lestrade wouldn't let him win this one.

Sherlock had never taken defeat well.

"Problem?", he seemed to be amused.

Lestrade gripped his thighs hidden under the table in mute ire.

"You appear to have a deeply emotional approach, Detective Inspector", the young man mocked, "If you're so set on steering poor lost souls onto the right path you should have considered becoming a priest."

"You are mistaken", Lestrade replied coolly, "In my current job it's much easier to recognise those without redemption", a minute pause, "The murder was committed between 3.30 and 5 a.m. Did you leave the office then?"

"No, I didn't."

A cheeky grin. God, how did he manage to stay cheeky when he could already foresee the next question?

"Did you hear the shot?"

"No, Detective Inspector", in Sherlock's lips the title sounded like an insult, "Actually, I'm afraid the murderer may have used a silencer."

Lestrade took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.

"Did you see the victim coming in?"

"I was after several glasses and three shots. Do you think I was able to see anything?", it was meant as a bait.

"I'm the one asking questions here, Mr Holmes", Lestrade congratulated himself on the steady tone.

"But please", Sherlock swung the chair back, "Do call me Sherlock."

Lestrade's control flew out of the window and he banged his fist on the table.

"Facts, Sherlock!"

The smirk grew even wider.

"Bullying a witness, Lestrade. How unprofessional, one would think our great police force…"

He didn't get to finish as Lestrade cut in, pinning him with his eyes.

"Just answer the question", he allowed himself a barely-here sigh, "I see that it may be difficult for you to admit that you have no recollection of what taken place there, it seems natural to me that you're reluctant to state that for once you let some detail slip, if you can call a *murder* a detail", he snorted to himself, observing how Sherlock paled rapidly, even though he valiantly held his chin up high.

In the end, the witness spoke up.

"No, I didn't see her coming in. What's more, I didn't see the moment she fell down, I can't tell you if there was the murderer inside. I don't remember anything", by the end of his confession his voice lost its evenness.

"What is the first thing you recall?", Lestrade pressed.

No hesitance this time.

"Someone shaking my shoulders, screaming about a corpse. That man must have come in and found the body, then he found me. Thought I was dead too at first."

Not ignorant of Sherlock's shame and distress, Lestrade let him have few seconds to compose himself and dedicated himself to writing the conversation down. Not that there was much to write to begin with.

"Well", he put the pen down, "I believe we're finished here. Unless you want to add something?"

Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line. Lestrade suspected that even if he had miraculously cracked the case this very moment he wouldn't share a single observation with him. He actually looked ready to never talk to him again in his life.

"Please take a look at the protocol", Lestrade decided to simply follow the procedures and be done with it, "If you find it true to your words, please sign it."

Sherlock grabbed the paper from his hand and put down his signature without sparing it a glance.

"Can I leave now?", he was already standing up straightening his shirt.

"I don't see any hindrance", Lestrade opened the door and Sherlock dashed out, avoiding crashing into Chief Inspector Dowell by a millimetre.

"Done, Lestrade?", Dowell asked in what was suspiciously pleasant tone while both he and Burton assumed such positions that it was impossible for Sherlock to go past them without bumping into anyone.

"Yes", not wishing to be dragged into something without a specific name, Lestrade reduced his involvement to handing the protocol to Dowell.

Dowell scanned in more quickly than Sherlock would read two pages and Lestrade had to physically refrain himself from rolling his eyes. It was clear that the Chief Inspector couldn't be bothered less with the result of the interrogation and this theory was confirmed when he passed the paper to Burton.

"What do you think about it?", Dowell tried to sound conversational and while Lestrade had to keep his face straight, Sherlock had no such obligations. He openly rolled his grey-blue orbs at the man.

"I haven't seen or read anything yet, sir", Lestrade hastily provided, drawing attention away from the offender.

Dowell accepted it with a serious nod, but Burton was already blurting out.

"McKenzie was believed to have an access to top secret files of the government.

Lestrade was desperately looking for a place to focus his eyes because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to mask his amusement at Burton's excitement. Sherlock's eyes seemed to be the right spot, at least for a second, before the young man reminded himself that he was supposed to be sulking, offended by Lestrade's interrogation.

So Lestrade had no other choice but to look at Burton, who assumed a pose of an eager puppy.

"Is that a verified information?", he asked carefully.

Burton didn't seem to have thought of that, but Dowell came to his rescue.

"As much as such information can be verified. No one is too helpful when you ask who can touch the country's best-guarded secrets."

Lestrade had to agree with that. Burton visibly relaxed.

But a moment of such tranquillity can only last this long before you start to feel that something is amiss. And that it's mostly about you, judging by how your companions are staring at you.

"That, Lestrade", Dowell took it upon himself to break the news – he was the boss here, after all, "Is where you're coming into this."

Lestrade wasn't particularly happy about being put on a case with Burton. Experience had taught him that being called an idiot by Sherlock was a blessing compared to working with Burton. He really did wish the man well, only there always came that moment in everyone's life when they started to value peace and competence.

"This young man", Dowell suddenly turned to Sherlock, startling him, "Got himself into a pretty dangerous situation. Being the sole witness to a murder, committed for such obscure reasons… He's become a threat to the murderer."

Lestrade blinked. Then again. He looked to Sherlock, but the man's face was unreadable.

"Sir", Lestrade began sheepishly, "I don't want to contradict you, but please take under consideration that the 'reasons' are merely a rumour and that our witness didn't in fact witness anything."

'The murderer doesn't have to know that, does he?", Burton sounded smug.

"No, he doesn't", Lestrade relented, "But he doesn't have to know there was anyone here in the office other than McKenzie too. After all, he or she did leave him unscratched."

The murder's motives and knowledge must have been the last thing on Dowell's mind, because he stopped the discussion that was bound to take place.

"Anyway", he drawled, "We can't risk our witness's wellbeing", he announced, sending Sherlock a reassuring smile.

Which Sherlock not so politely ignored, moving his eyes from Dowell to Lestrade.

Apparently unaffected by this blatant show of disrespect, which even made Burton scowl, the Chief Inspector continued.

"We have to keep our witness safe."

Realisation hit Lestrade like a well-aimed rock.

"You want to put him on a witness protection programme?", after a though he added, "Sir?"

Saying this aloud had probably enhanced the ridiculousness of this idea, because Dowell shifted. He maintained a serious expression of a man who knows what he's doing, though.

"Not exactly a witness protection", he began and both Lestrade and Sherlock huffed simultaneously. Then, Sherlock glared at the DI, who on his part remained stoic like any dignified grown-up, "We simply decided to assign an officer who would look after him, to be colloquial."

"I believe that's the only way you're capable of being", Sherlock sneered and Lestrade felt excused to roll his eyes. He's so not helping him when he insults his boss, "Besides, I do not need a babysitter."

They could say all they wanted, but Sherlock had some issues. A child complex to start with.

"He doesn't need a babysitter", Lestrade found himself supporting Sherlock bloody Holmes, "And I'm certainly not one!"

Dowell looked surprised confronted with such rebellion. He had anticipated a protest from Holmes, but not much from Lestrade. Definitely not such a coordinated protest.

"Lestrade", he growled to re-assert his authority, "You're the man I'm putting on this job. My best man."

When it came to Sherlock, Lestrade would gladly accept the title of the worst man. However, he needed to be diplomatic about it.

"Sir", he schooled his features into a face of a trustworthy veteran, "I appreciate your trust but I'm afraid I don't have the experience necessary to do this job."

Dowell didn't buy.

"What kind of experience do you mean? All you have to do is follow him with a gun!"

Sherlock smirked and Lestrade would bet his arm that they thought about the same thing: that Lestrade couldn't be trusted with a gun in Sherlock's presence, certainly not behind his back.

"I'm a DI", Lestrade tried to rationalise, "I have my team which I have to lead. We've just got a new case and…"

"I'm positive that Sergeant Donovan is capable of solving a case. Your men are all more than capable."

Lestrade almost prayed that Sherlock would pop up with some insult under Sally's address. Anything. Call her an idiot, a slacker, anything. He would forgive him. Just something to make Dowell doubt his team's competence.

Nothing came. Sherlock was inspecting the ceiling.

Traitor.

"Thank you on their behalf, sir", Lestrade grunted, "But maybe you should re-consider this. There are a lot of men willing to protect a witness. Not that I'm not willing", he clarified, "I just think that Mr Holmes may prefer someone closer to his age", he made it up as he was talking.

It not only brought a stupid slack-jawed expression on Dowell's face but also an incredulous look from Sherlock. Lestrade felt a blush creeping on his cheeks.

"I can't fathom what my age has to do with it", Sherlock cleared his throat, "Anyway", he turned to Dowell, "I understand you may appreciate being informed that I'm going to dismiss a 'protection' from any officer other than Lestrade."

Little shit.

If Dowell had been surprised at the commanding tone of the sickly pale witness, he hid it well. Maybe because he was busy beaming at Lestrade.

"See, Lestrade? I think it solves everything."

"Sir, surely you're not going to just bend to some… Kid's will", last desperate attempt.

"Lestrade", Dowell grabbed his shoulder, whispering urgently, "There's been pressure from up here", he pointed his finger upwards, "He seems to have some influential friends. I'm sorry, but you must understand that there are some suggestions you can't simply discard…"

"So I'm going to get stuck with him just because Mycroft called you?"

"Who?", Dowell was searching his face.

"Never mind who, sir", he replied rather rudely but was too furious to care, "Why can't those concerned citizens grant him protection on their own?", he had a good idea why.

"You can't seriously believe they told me", Dowell scowled, "All I know is that we have to protect him, and you're the only man I trust to do that. I don't want to involve anyone else. You already know about the murder, you interrogated him, he wants it to be you…"

To drive me up the wall in the absence of his brother.

"Please, Lestrade, you have to understand my hands are tied. It has to be done."

"Sure, boss. You can count on me", he turned to Sherlock with a face of the man who's death warrant had just been issued.

...

"I don't like it as much as you do", Sherlock informed him when they were on their way to Lestrade's office.

"You weren't overly vocal about it", the DI reminded him sourly retrieving his bag.

Sherlock shrugged. He really appeared pale in his clothes. And Lestrade wasn't really looking towards the withdrawal. Too much of a déjà vu.

"Do you have a coat?", he asked already walking towards a hanger with his spare jacket.

"No."

"Try this", Lestrade threw him a short jacket, "It has to do for now. I'm not dealing with a cold on a top of all of that", he gave Sherlock a stern glare, but the young man only put the jacket on, buttoning it up all the way to his neck.

"Warm", he stated with his trademark cheeky grin when Lestrade was locking the door.

"Good. Just don't get any ideas, I'm no Kevin Costner."

...

A/N First off, I don't have much knowledge about drugs and their effects. Sherlock is experiencing headache and other things I wrote about because he mixed two kind of drugs with alcohol. That's way the effects may differ from what drugs (e.g. cocaine) tend to cause.


End file.
